


Lord John and the Ghost of the Scottish Prisoner

by Angstosaur



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Ardsmuir, Ghosts, Haunting, M/M, Teacher!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27302977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angstosaur/pseuds/Angstosaur
Summary: After taking over as Headmaster of Ardsmuir Academy from the disgraced Harry Quarry, Lord John Grey is working late. A knock at the door leads him into a frightening evening of terror and lust, as a gorgeous young man enters his study. The resident ghost is not impressed at all.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 22
Collections: Lord John Trick-or-Twink Spooktacular 2020





	Lord John and the Ghost of the Scottish Prisoner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iihappydaysii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iihappydaysii/gifts).



> This is gifted to iihappydaysii who kindly let me borrow his wonderful character of Brian. I also have his writing to thank for tempting me to write for this fandom having spent over 10 years writing Torchwood fics!

** Lord John and the Ghost of the Scottish Prisoner **

The tapping on the door to his study had Lord John Grey set aside the letter he had been writing to Tryon, Chair of the Board of Governors for Ardsmuir Academy. Looking up to the door he half expected Tom Byrd to walk straight in. Although the school secretary had demonstrated little respect for John’s personal space, he had proved to be very attentive.

A quick glance at his desk diary was enough to remind him that there was one more scheduled appointment for that evening. Since taking over the reins from Harry Quarry halfway through the Michaelmas term, Grey was still catching up with the obligatory meetings to be held with all the new staff. Sighing, he looked to the coat stand where his jacket was hanging, along with his academic gown. Grey wondered if he should make himself more presentable, but then recalled that his final meeting was to be with the new resident artist and decided that, even in waistcoat and rolled up shirtsleeves, he was probably still going to be more smartly dressed than some Bohemian artist. He recalled the last one, who wore an embroidered, sheepskin coat and smelt of pot – Harry had had to let him go after parental concerns.

“Enter,” he called out, even though the door was already opening. Apparently the new artist was not as laid back as his predecessor. He took his glasses off, holding them by one arm and then looked up.

John Grey’s eyebrows shot up as a young man entered, wearing a snugly fitting black t-shirt, with the slogan ‘Make love not war’ emblazoned on it and a pair of exceptionally tight jeans. It occurred to Grey that it was probably just as well they were tight as they were threatening to slide off the man’s slender hips. There was low slung and then there was gravity-defying and those firmly fit into the latter category, despite the valiant efforts of the studded leather belt. Forcing his gaze upwards, John was also impressed by the hair – striking dark red curls that tumbled over his reasonably broad shoulders. His own hair was also long, but he kept it neatly tied back to maintain a professional aura. John brought a hand to his mouth to hide the fact that he had been close to drooling. _Dear God, what was he meant to do with this creature?_

“Hi.” The young man looked around the room as if expecting someone else. “I got a note saying the headmaster wanted to see me. Is this the wrong room?”

“No –” John pinched the bridge of his nose where the glasses had been rubbing.

“Headache?” The resident artist approached Grey and ducked down to look into his eyes. “I can give you an Indian head massage if you like –”

“That will not be necessary Mr Randall-” Grey cut in quickly, feeling his cheeks becoming warm under the intense gaze from eyes that seemed to be of a strange hue, blue with the finest streaks of amber radiating out from the pupils like rays of sunshine. _Oh shit... Grey realised he was in danger of developing a crush on a pair of blue eyes framed by long lashes._

“Hey, drop the Randall. It’s just Brian.” The young man perched a buttock on the edge of the antique walnut desk, maintaining eye contact with Grey. 

“If you’d care to take a seat-” Grey swallowed hard as he swept a hand out in the direction of the hard-backed chair that was placed on the other side of the desk, specifically for anyone wishing to speak to the headmaster.

“I have one, thanks,” came an overly cheeky response as Brian wriggled his backside fully onto the desktop, pushing aside the telephone to make room. “This is cool.”

From the opposite side of the desk, Grey’s eyes were drawn to a long, lean thigh, sheathed in denim that was draped across the letter headed stationery. As he was about to object, he saw a tear in the fabric open up to reveal a glimpse of pale skin. Averting his eyes promptly, Grey cleared his throat and put his round, wire-rimmed glasses back on, partly to focus on the contents of Randall’s file that Tom had left out for him, and partly to try to appear more like a ‘proper’ Headmaster.

“I see that you started late – visa issues I understand? I just wanted to check in on how your first week has gone.” Grey breathed out slowly, thinking he had recovered his status quo admirably, considering the provocation he was suffering. “I heard that some of the boys-”

However, before Grey could continue, he felt the gaze of Brian Randall again, and looking over the rim of his glasses he was met with a broad grin.

“You know what? I’m damn sure I’d remember seeing you before.” The young man was staring intently at Grey. “The guy who interviewed me in September was pretty old and crusty, whereas you are a total babe. You’re way too cute to be a Headmaster.”

“Cute?” John spluttered in indignation, trying not to think about being referred to as a ‘babe’. “I shall have you know that as of the start of October, I took on the role as Acting Headmaster. Mr Quarry has had to… take some time off. Unexpectedly.”

“You’re joshing me! No? So, the story I heard from the kids about the sex diaries is true?” Brian all but squealed in delight. “I gotta say, he never looked the type-”

“I have no idea what you are on about. But I would caution you against repeating anything slanderous, Mister Randall.” Grey put on his most authoritative of tones, narrowing his eyes in a way he knew was sufficient to have the most wayward of students toe the line. However, he was disconcerted that his stern warning was not being taken seriously.

“Does that work with the kids? Because if it does, I bet it ain’t for the reason you think.” The young man perched on his desk was smirking cheekily at Grey. He then picked up from where he had left off. “The boys told me. Kids always know the dirt in a place like this, long before you guys figure it out.”

“I also strongly advise you not to believe everything the boys tell you.” Grey sat back in his leather office chair, as he considered his own experiences with the schoolboys who were attempting to make his life a misery. “They do like their pranks and japes. They are currently conducting a campaign of terror against me, trying to convince me that this office is haunted.”

“What? By the old head? He’s not dead is he?”

“No! Mr Quarry is not dead!” Grey was outraged at the gleeful expression on the face of Brian-Bloody-Randall. “Not in the least.”

“So, let me get this straight, the old Head was the guy the kids call Handsome Harry. That means you must be… oh shit… you’re Lord John. A K A Major Hot-stuff!” Brian’s face broke out into a massive grin and he clapped his hands. He pressed the tip of his tongue into the inside of his cheek as he admired the man behind the desk. “And I can see why.”

“Really, Mr Randall, I do not think -” Grey once again found himself flustered.

“Just Brian. But, strictly off the record, you could call me anything. Or anytime. If you catch my drift.” Brian felt he could leer safely without risk of being kicked out, which would really annoy his mother, but that it was probably too soon to blow a kiss. “So, how about I split the difference and just call you Lord Hot-stuff?”

“Headmaster or Mister Grey will suffice,” stated Grey, although he was starting to feel hot under the collar.

“So, not Mister Hot-Stuff?”

“Never.” John glared, even though he knew it was not deterring his tormentor. “Certainly not. I would also appreciate it if you were to reinforce that when you enter any dialogue with the students.”

“What about Lord John?” asked the young American, savouring the words, rolling them around in his mouth as if they were a fine delicacy. “Looorrrd Jooohnnn. Yeah – I like that.”

“I would much rather you kept to protocol-”

“Whatever you say, LJ.” Brian grinned feeling that he was going to enjoy his sabbatical much more now that he had met the new Headmaster. “So, back to Handsome Harry, is it true what the kids are saying? That he got sacked for writing porn to the French mistress?”

“There was some correspondence that was deemed unprofessional,” admitted John, trying to forget the most horrendous attempt at erotic literature he had ever had the misfortune to read. “That is all I am prepared to say and is certainly not to be broadcast beyond these four walls.”

“No sweat. My lips are sealed.” Brian pressed his lips close together and took the time to check out his Lordship’s fingers. There was no wedding band, just a signet ring on his left little finger, a rather nice piece of jewellery with a blue stone, that could have been a sapphire. He decided a fishing trip was in order. “Tell me, is there a Mrs Grey who irons those shirts for you?”

“No, there is no Mrs Grey in my life. And, for your information, I iron my own shirts!” exclaimed John indignantly, before realising what he had revealed. If he had thought the young man was showing an unhealthy interest in his clothing beforehand, his admission of not being married had caused the man’s eyes to drift from his shirt to his trousers. “Not that my marital status is any of your business.”

“No girlfriend then?” inquired Brian inquisitively. He was pretty sure of his suspicions, but it did not hurt to be certain. There was no indication that Lord John Grey had a significant other to rush home to, not as he was still working in his office late on a Friday night.

John rolled his eyes, recognising the interrogation for what it was. However, he was not going to divulge his personal preferences to someone who shared gossip with the boys. Although same sex acts had been partially decriminalised in England, they were all still illegal in Scotland. Not for the first time did it occur to him that it was no coincidence that his brother had secured him a position north of the border, just as life in London had been looking up. 

Grey was pulled from thoughts of strangling his dear brother by the impertinence of Brian Randall whose long, slender arm was snaking across his desk to pluck one of the buttermints from the bowl next to his elbow.

“You don’t mind do ya?” It was too late if John did object as he watched the sweet being partially unwrapped and then sucked out of the remaining cellophane with an obscene slurp.

“No, not at all, help yourself – oh, I see you already have,” snapped Grey, unaware of the fact that his full-lipped pout was having the opposite effect to the one intended.

John closed his eyes, fearing they had betrayed him by focusing on the lips of the feral creature sitting in front of him, chewing with his mouth open just enough to reveal his tongue sweeping over teeth to remove the sugary residue.

“I think we’re gonna get on real well – you and me,” announced Brian, waving a finger from his chest to John and back again.

“I,” pointed out John, pedantically.

“What?”

“You and I,” clarified John. “It is grammatically correct to refer to the two of us as ‘you and I’ and not ‘you and me’.”

“Us? Why not?” Brian smirked and then licked his lips before continuing. “Sure – suits me. You and I it is… Lord John.”

“Dear God – ” Grey hid is face in his hands and prayed for patience.

“So, tell me, why do they call you Lord John? I mean I get why some would call you Major Hot-stuff – but Lord John? Sounds a bit stuffy.”

“It’s my official title,” murmured Grey. “My father was a duke, and I am the younger of his sons.”

“So, how old are you?”

“Old enough.”

‘ _Too old,’_ a voice whispered in his ear. Grey shook his head, wondering when his subconscious had started talking to him with a Scottish accent. He found himself reaching out for one of the buttermints, carefully removing all of the wrapper and then carefully slipping the sweet between his lips, all too aware of the scrutiny under which his every move was being placed.

“So, tell me, do you ever use that old relic?” asked Brian, pointing at the case on the wall behind the headmaster’s grand desk.

“The cane?” frowned John, turning his head to look at the display case in which was placed a thin wooden cane. He viewed the object with disdain. “In all my years of teaching, I have never doled out corporal punishment on any child- ”

“But what about adults?” asked Brian, a brazen look in his eyes.

“I – what?” demanded John, wrongfooted once more.

“Would you give me six of the best if I was a ‘bad’ boy?” Brian leaned across the desk, his hair sweeping forward and brushing over Grey’s arm, before whispering the last words again for effect: “A very bad boy. A bad boy who needed to be taught a lesson.”

“Sweet Jesus,” John almost choked on his mint. He had to cough hard to prevent it sliding down his windpipe. “Who was the devil that sent you to torment me?”

Taking a gulp of water from the glass that had been carefully set on a coaster, John had thought his question a rhetorical one until he heard Brian Randall reply nonchalantly.

“That would be my mom. Claire Randall. The famous lady surgeon of Boston. Here, I got a photo of her and the old man, in my wallet.”

Brian Randall stood up and slid the fingers of one hand into the back pocket of his jeans, causing the front to pull even tighter over his crotch.

To distract himself, John Grey toyed with a paperweight that he quickly feigned interest in. Having his hands occupied was a blessing in disguise as Brian Randall then squeezed around him to stand at his side. With one hand on Grey’s shoulder, the young man leaned across him to place a dog-eared photograph onto his blotter.

John found himself drawn to the photograph of a teenage boy blowing the candles out on a birthday cake, flanked on either side by what he assumed were his parents. However, he could see no similarity between Brian and the man in the photo, who did look familiar. His mother, yes – the unruly curls and beautifully curved lips hypnotic, it was as if she was looking straight at him, a warning look in her eyes.

“Beautiful,” murmured Grey, touching a finger to the image. As he did so, he felt an icy chill run down his back, and he shuddered.

“Whoa, did you feel that? It got real cold all of a sudden.” Brian took his hand off Grey to rub his arms, the freckled skin covered in goosebumps. “This place sure is drafty, must be all the stone walls. Dungeon chic – you should hire this place out for Halloween parties.”

Grey shivered as he, too, felt the temperature drop suddenly. So cold that he could almost see his breath as he exhaled. Glancing around to Brian, who was now standing awfully close, he could see the young man’s nipples pressing against the tight fabric of his t-shirt. They had not been like that beforehand. He would have noticed. He forced himself to shift his attention back to the photograph in his hands.

“So, this is Claire Randall, to whom I should be thankful for sending you to me?” asked Grey, pointing at the woman, immediately regretting his words as he felt warm breath on his neck as Brian chuckled in response.

“That’s totally up to you, Lord John,” came the husky retort, that made the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up. “Anyway, mom’s probably going by the name Beauchamp again since the old man passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” John politely started to offer his condolences until he recalled the name. Another glance at the image confirmed his suspicions. “Frank Randall?”

“He sure was. History professor and all-round, stuck-up, pompous bastard. Made me learn how to shoot and hunt, even though he knew I was a vegetarian. And he cheated on mom.” For the first time since he had breezed into the headmaster’s study, Brian Randall appeared less than cheerful. “But I guess he was a decent dad to me.”

“I studied under him when I was at Cambridge,” said Grey. “He helped me work out the genealogy of my family.”

“Did you just say you were **_under_** my old man when you were a student?” Brian smirked as he saw an opening he could not resist. He wrapped an arm around John’s shoulders and squeezed. “How ironic would that be if- ”

“That is not what I meant, and I suspect you are fully aware of that.” Grey smiled, recognising when he was being teased and beginning to enjoy it, as he was the proximity of someone who actually seemed to enjoy being physically close to him.

“Are you off duty now? How about a drink?” suggested Brian, feeling the man relax slightly. He had not shoved him away, which was always a good sign. “I see you’ve got a whole drinks cabinet over there and you sure as hell look as if you could do with one.”

“Officially I am not off duty until I leave the campus at night. However, it is,” John paused to pull an antique pocket watch from the front of his waistcoat. “Good grief it’s almost nine o’clock. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have a small drink.”

“Glad to hear you do know how to let your hair down, LJ,” said Brian, toying playfully with Grey’s neat ponytail, almost tempted to ‘accidentally’ loosen the hair tie.

“Please, if I let you call me John, will you stop using dreadful nicknames?” pleaded Grey, his heart skipping a beat as he could feel his hair being fondled. “Would you care to join me for a nightcap?”

“Sure. Make mine a stiff one, John.”

John graced Brian with a look that could have frozen a volcano but was powerless in the midst of the fluttering eyelashes and innocuously sweet smile being aimed at him.

“Jeez… take a chill pill, man. Liquor, gin, vodka, rum, whatever you’ve got.” Brian scanned the array of bottles. “Coke if you’re got it. Not Pepsi.”

“I suspect the only mixer I have to hand will be soda from the soda siphon,” advised John, apologetically as he got up from his seat and ushered Brian ahead of him.

He was thankfully spared the option of squeezing past Brian in the narrow confines of the space behind the desk. However, it also meant that he got an unrestricted view of the young man’s perfectly formed backside, teasing him from beneath a thin layer of faded denim.

“Ice?” asked Brian, as he looked over his shoulder, in the process swinging a cascade of curls into John’s face.

“Ice?” repeated John, initially wondering if the suggestion was prompted by the fact he had been caught ogling the man’s backside. “Oh, ice? No. This is the Head’s study, not a cocktail bar. Most often a small sherry is sipped or on certain occasions a dram of whisky.”

“Vodka and soda it is then,” replied Brian with a shrug, not sure how soda water differed from soda, but not wanting to ask.

“Not a single malt?” asked John, opening a bottle of Glenfiddich and pouring some of the pale golden liquid into a cut glass tumbler. “It is locally produced-”

“Whisky?” Brian cringed. “No thanks. It’s like an old man’s drink, no offence.”

As Brian spoke the bottles on the top of the cabinet began to rattle together, as if someone was jostling the silver tray on which they sat.

“Whoa – that’s freaky deaky!” declared Brian as he watched John carefully move the bottles apart before pouring some Smirnoff and then squirting some water into it from the soda siphon.

“That sort of thing has been happening all week,” sighed John, wearily. “Bottles rattling, pictures falling off the wall, lights flickering, you name it – every haunted house cliché in the book. I suppose it is nearly Halloween after all.”

“Not that you’d know it, looking around the place. Not a single Jack O’ Lantern, although you’ve gone for the spider webs I see.” Brian pointed at the thick webs hanging from the corners of the ceiling and from the light fittings.

“Ah – those are real. You should see the bloody spiders that make them. There will be decorations up for the House parties, you’ll be pleased to know.” John passed the vodka and soda to Brian and then thought of an idea that he thought would be appealing. “Perhaps you could take a lead with the design and production of those, in your capacity as resident artist?”

“Sure – that sounds like fun.” Brian grinned as he accepted his drink, brushing his fingers against the other man’s hand as he did so. Again, no flinching, or twitching. All good.

“Slainte-” said John as he raised his glass.

However, just as John was about to take a drink, he felt a force beneath the heavy tumbler pushing upwards and shoving the glass into his face. He spluttered and coughed, whisky dribbling down his chin. Brian laughed out loud and then rushed forward to mop of the spill with a clean handkerchief he pulled from the tight front pocket of his jeans.

“Helluva way to stay sober, man,” joked Brian, although his laughter died out as he saw that John was injured. The glass had smashed his lip against his teeth, causing a small cut. Brian gently dabbed at the blood that was beading on John’s lip with a corner of his handkerchief. He was so close that he was almost emboldened enough to kiss the swollen pink lips, slightly parted as John gasped gently.

Brian was so focused on the perfectly formed lips, that he missed the fact that John was fixated by the way his tongue was poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated.

“Um, thank you,” mumbled John, as he took a step back, tightly clutching the glass with the remains of the drink he had poured himself. He gestured towards the two-seater sofa, indicating that they should sit somewhere more comfortable. He was pleased that his suggestion was not responded to with anything other than a grateful smile.

“So, tell me,” asked John, trying not to focus on the fact that the gorgeous young man, whose thigh was pressed against his, had just been touching his lips. “Whatever made you seek a post at this establishment? Surely you would have preferred the bright lights of London. Soho, or Covent Garden perhaps?”

“Touché. If you must know, my mom saw this job advertised and said it would do me good to spend some time in the Highlands of Scotland.” Brian paused to take a sip of his drink. “I guess you know this place used to be a prison-”

“Indeed, I do,” replied John, smiling as he recalled his family history, crossing his legs at the ankle as he relaxed. “One of my ancestors was prison governor here during the eighteenth century. Same name as mine in fact. I’m descended from one of his nephews, Adam Grey.”

A clattering sound from the far end of the study was accompanied by a gust of wind that blew in through the window, causing the curtains to flap around wildly. John turned his head to see what was happening.

“Damn. I was sure Tom closed those windows earlier this evening.”

As John got up from his seat and walked around to fasten the window, he picked up a chess piece that had been knocked off the chessboard by the curtains – the white king. He set it back in its place and added the pawn that he had earlier slipped into his waistcoat pocket. As he did so, he noticed for the first time that two of the pawns had been moved on the board. The white queen’s pawn had been moved twice, apparently initiating the queen’s gambit, and the black king’s pawn had been moved as well, the first counter moves used in the Scotch game. He had not moved those pieces. _And why had the breeze blown over the king, the largest piece and left the pawns in place?_

Grey’s forehead wrinkled in consternation as he tried to work out how the chess pieces had been moved. As far as he knew, Tom Byrd was the only other person to have been in the study and he thought chess was a boring game. He stared at Brian Randall and discounted his involvement, apart from anything else he had not left his sight since he had strolled into the room.

“How peculiar,” he muttered. “That window was definitely shut.”

“Maybe this place is haunted? Maybe it’s not a bunch of scheming schoolboys?” Brian suggested, thoughtfully, leaning back so that his hair flowed across the cushioned back of the sofa. “Ever since I was a kid, I always wanted to stay in a real haunted castle.”

“Ardsmuir is not a castle.” John returned to the sofa, only to find that Brian had taken over more than his own side, which forced John to either squash himself against the arm, or sit in the boy’s lap. “Could you shift over a little?”

Brian obliged by shuffling over just enough that John could sit down, although he was now pressed close to the young man from shoulder, through hip, to thigh. John was starting to wonder if he had put too many logs on the fire as his face was burning.

“There ya go, nice and cosy.” Taking another sip of his drink and trying not to grimace at the taste of alcohol not offset by the sweetness of a sugary mixer, Brian pointed at the impressive stone fireplace. “See, this place is really old and it’s got massive stone walls. In my books that makes it a castle.”

“It was more of a fortress – not a castle,” explained John, as he warily took a drink of whisky, feeling the sting as it touched the cut on his lip. “Besides which, your flat is in the new block across the quad from the tennis courts. I very much doubt that you’ll be troubled by spirits wailing in the night.”

“So, you checked out my crib then?” Brian lifted an arm and lay it casually along the back of the sofa, in the hope that John Grey would sit back again and let his head rest against his arm. “Cool.”

“It’s my business to know which members of staff are resident on site,” said John, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t get too excited.”

“What about you? Is there a bedroom attached to your office?” Brian gazed at the door next to the bookcase at the far end of the room and imagined a four-poster bed in the room beyond, complete with dark silk sheets and satin hangings. “Hey, do you sleep here?”

“No,” chuckled John, although he had passed out on the small sofa for a few nights in the past month. “But my ancestor did. The study and the other admin offices are situated in what would have been his office and private quarters. From old floorplans, I’ve deduced that he would have sat here, in front of this very fireplace.”

“That’s cool – imagine.” Brian placed a hand on John’s shoulder and slowly walked his fingers down his arm and then onto his leg, all the while keeping his eyes firmly fixed on John’s to gauge his reaction. He was delighted to note that the shock was a pleasant one and that although John’s breathing seemed to speed up, he was not trying to break his arm. “It’s nearly Halloween, so maybe it’s his ghost that’s haunting you?”

John trembled slightly before answering, then carefully took Brian’s hand from his knee and placed it on the young man’s own thigh, only briefly allowing his own fingertips to stray over that tear in the denim. Behind them a bookcase began to sway forward, all of the books sliding forward and then back again as the antique article of furniture jerked back again into position. However, neither man noticed it, nor the frustrated grunt that accompanied the near disaster.

“Why on earth would my ancestor torment me?” asked John, loosening his tie.

“Well – I’m not being judgemental or anything, man, but I guess you’re not like one hundred percent straight. And maybe he was some kind of religious nut and he’s pissed with you for … why are you laughing at me? I’m trying to be sensitive here, man!”

“Well…” John kept laughing and wiped tears from his cheeks with the tips of his fingers. “You’re fifty percent correct. I am not completely straight, but… neither was he.” John raised his eyebrows and cast an eye at the arm that was lingering a fraction of an inch from the back of his neck. “And from the way you’ve been flirting with me since you came through that door, I very much doubt that you are either. Meanwhile, I really don’t think that would cause Lord John Bertram Armstrong Grey to haunt me.”

John rested his head back, and Brian slapped his thigh. They both laughed together, relived and amused.

“Hey there, after we finish up these drinks, maybe you could walk me home?” suggested Brian. “I’ve got some beers at my place. Chilled in the fridge, not left to go warm on a shelf. You could tell me a bit more about the history of -”

“I am not sure that would be appropriate,” interrupted John, a regretful expression on his face.

“Hey, man, I’m not gonna jump your bones the minute I get you in my crib!”

John just shook his head and sighed, wondering if the delightful creature who had almost crawled into his lap had any idea what was going through his head.

“Alright, I’ll walk over to the boarding house with you and - if you promise to behave - I shall have a beer with you.” John pressed his finger to Brian’s lips, pre-empting an excited squeal. “But first, before we go anywhere, I need to sign off on our meeting. Properly completed paperwork is apparently the best way to impress my secretary, Tom.”

John swallowed what was left of his whisky, pushed himself up from the sofa and went directly to his desk. Rather than sit down, he just leaned across it to reach the file for Brian Randall. He pulled out the sheet that he had to sign and date. Just as John smoothed flat the foolscap sheet of paper and proceeded to add his signature, his fountain pen ran out of ink. Swearing to himself, John took the lid off the ink bottle and unscrewed the barrel of his fountain pen, intending to refill it. Without warning, the ink bottle suddenly skittered across the desktop, splashing ink across the pristine white sheets of paper, until it gathered speed and flew off the desk to hit John soundly in the crotch.

“Fuck!” swore John, his eyes watering. He dropped to the floor in a crouch, cradling that part of his anatomy bruised by what appeared to be a possessed Quink bottle. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Shit!” exclaimed Brian as he leapt to his feet. He had been busily gazing at John’s rear end as the guy had been bending over his desk, lewd thoughts not far from his mind, so he had witnessed the incident as it had played out in front of his eyes. “I saw that! That was no freaking prank. That ink bottle moved all by itself!”

Startled, John just crouched there, his head tucked down, staring at the large royal blue stain that was spreading across the crotch of his grey suit trousers.

“Are you OK, man? You look white as a sheet.”

“I … I need to clear this mess up,” John muttered as he picked up the empty ink bottle. He threw it into the wastepaper basket, standing up as he did so, trying to dab at the ink, only making it worse.

“We need to get you out of those pants, and boy do I wish I was saying that for a totally different reason.” Brian could not tear his eyes away from the Rorschach pattern displayed over John Grey’s groin. He wondered what the psychologists would make of his interpretation of the inkblot – he could certainly imagine his mother’s face. Sweeping back loose strands of hair from his face, he licked his lips and tried to think of something innocent to say. “Maybe some of that soda water will get the stain out before it sets.”

“I hate to say it, but you’re right,” John sat down on the chair by the desk and removed his shoes, before awkwardly starting to undress. It was not that he was normally shy when it came to stripping off in front of an attractive man with similar desires, far from it, but there was something wrong about undoing his fly in the middle of the Headmaster’s study. Doubly so when he was being watched so avidly by a gorgeous young man, who despite his promises to the contrary, looked on hungrily.

As John slid his trousers over his hips, he was so self-conscious that he failed to hear the sound of a heavy log slowly roll out of the grate and land with a thump on the hearth rug. The glowing embers scattered across the rug causing the fine wool to smoulder, before catching fire. It was eventually the smell of the burning wool that alerted the men, by which time the flames were dancing along the fringed edging. Thinking fast, Brian pulled the trousers from Grey’s hands and used them to swat the flames. As he slapped the trouser legs against the flames, the fine tweed became scorched. John snatched the trousers back and threw them to the ground, spraying them with the soda siphon that he had repurposed as a fire extinguisher.

Pausing to look at the damage, their eyes met across the ruined trousers. But before either of them could say a word, a loud guffaw echoed around the study.

“That was not me!” they said at the same time.

“This place is definitely haunted!” hissed Brian.

“It most certainly is not,” snapped John. “This is all some elaborate prank -”

“Bullshit! You’re trying to convince yourself, dude – but that’s some serious shit I’ve seen tonight.”

Brian stared at John who was standing in his shirt, waistcoat and socks, hands on hips, biting his lip. Anyone else would have looked like a total dork, but John Grey looked totally fuckable. And vulnerable. Something that had not occurred to Brian until that moment. Whatever was going on, it was targeting John.

“This is not cool. There’s weird shit kicking off and I don’t think it’s safe for you to stay here. Whatever entity is hanging out, it’s got you in its sights.” Brian looked from the cut on John’s lip to the burnt hearth rug and then, finally, to the faint blue stains on the front of the man’s white underpants. “Doesn’t the Headmaster have his own pad?”

“I am still waiting for permission to move into the headmaster’s cottage. Until such time, I am… “ John shrugged as if embarrassed to admit to his personal circumstances. “Well, to be honest, I’ve been living in a studio flat in the village – that’s all I could afford as a history teacher. You can probably imagine why I was reluctant to live on campus.”

“That does it, you’re gonna have to come back to my flat, now.”

“What?”

“You’re gonna have to get something to wear before tomorrow and you can’t drive home like that – what if you got stopped. I’m sure mom packed me some sensible slacks – or maybe just a pair of loose-fitting bellbottom flares.”

“Tempting as that prospect may be,” replied John, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I cannot walk across the school campus like this!” John looked down at his bare legs.

“What about that dressing gown?” Brian pointed at the coat stand.

“That is my academic gown,” John scowled. “But you’re onto something. That may work, if I wrap it around tightly, then no one should notice that I am half naked.”

“Jeez, you’re nowhere near half naked,” spluttered Brian, imagining a half-naked Lord John and having to adjust his jeans as he did so. The guy seemed to be totally unaware of how sexy he was. “As for hiding those legs, don’t feel you have to on my account. Damn, do you go the gym? Your thighs, they’re like tree trunks. I’d love to feel those around-”

“Dear God-”

A howling sound filled the room and they both stopped midsentence to spin around to stare at the source of the sound. The fireplace.

A thick cloud of sooty, black smoke was billowing out from the chimney. As they covered their mouths to prevent the smoke from choking them, there appeared to be a shape coalescing in the centre of the swirling clouds. A giant of a man, tall and broad, apparently wearing a kilt and brandishing a large sword.

Brian grabbed hold of John’s arm.

“Can you see-” Brian’s voice was shaking.

“Yes,” admitted John.

“We gotta blow this joint, man. I’ve had bad trips that haven’t been as scary as this.”

Coughing as he inhaled wisps of the thick black smoke, John nodded his head in agreement.

“The door’s over there- after you.” John indicated that Brian should go ahead of him, but as he did so, he saw the young man’s eyes widening in horror.

“Duck!” screamed Brian as he saw a solid object spinning from out of the miasma, heading straight for them. Even as he yelled out a warning he dived at John, wrapping his hands around his waist to take him crashing to the floor, just in time to avoid the whisky bottle that was flying through the air towards his head. Missing the skull of John Grey, the bottle shattered against the wall.

“Shit!”

“Fucking hell!”

Rubbing his head, John found himself lying underneath Brian, whose belt buckle was sticking into the soft flesh below his navel. Then with a look of horror he realised what else was making contact, and an increasing contact at that. Brian’s eyes met John’s and the widening of his pupils made John think perhaps the young man was on drugs, until he rolled his hips, ever so subtly, but enough to have John twitching in his ink-stained white underpants.

Struggling to regain his dignity, such as it was while lying semi-dressed on the floor of the headmaster’s study under a horny young artist, with some demonic force wreaking havoc around them, John cleared his throat.

“Thank you for the …um .. the …”

“Dashing rescue from the angry ghost?” asked Brian, noticing how John’s arms were holding him close and rather liking the feeling. “Doesn’t that deserve a kiss?”

Leaning upwards, John pressed his mouth to Brian’s, tasting vodka and buttermint as the mischievous imp parted his lips and insinuated his tongue into John’s mouth. All the while, Brian’s hands cupped John’s face, preventing him from moving away.

“We really need to blow this joint, before that bastard ghost kills you,” muttered Brian, his soft lips moving against John’s mouth as he withdrew just enough to be able to speak.

“That would be a shame, after all the effort you’ve made this evening, not to get your just reward,” replied John enigmatically as he laid a trail of kisses from Brian’s mouth to his ear. “Or punishment for being such a _very, very bad boy_.”

“You mean because of doing something like this maybe?” asked Brian, as he worked a hand down between them, only for John to grab hold of it quicky before it wormed its way past the waistband of his underwear.

“I don’t think that’s a particularly good idea,” said John, biting his lip. “Not here, anyway.”

“Fuck. Now. Let’s split – now.” Brian reluctantly prised himself off John’s body and onto the rug, intent on crawling for the door. He heard John groan as he moved clear and turned to check on him, only to see the man still lying on his back. “You OK there, old man?”

“I’m not that old,” came John’s petulant response. The smoke had cleared, and he found himself able to take a deep breath.

“Thirty? Thirty-five?” asked Brian.

“Near enough,” admitted John, wincing as he worked out their age difference in his head. _Shit_ , it occurred to him that if they were at the Lavender Club in Covent Garden, Percy would have declared Brian to be the ultimate twink. He would rather think of him as a pleasant seasonal treat.

“So not old enough to be my dad.”

“Excuse me – I am a lot younger than Frank Randall was!” replied John indignantly. “I told you he was my professor.”

“Not Frank.” Brian shook his head. “My real dad. I never met him. But mom said he was the love of her life.”

“That sounds like a tragic love story, especially if you never got to meet him. Could you track him down, maybe? Do you have a name?”

“Sure, she said he was Scottish. From the Highlands. Jamie Fraser.”

At that point, the lights flickered and then the room was plunged into darkness. The windows swung open, leaves, twigs and debris were hurled into the room and there was a veritable maelstrom of sound and sensation. Rushing winds came tearing through the air and they could hear the furniture being knocked over, the sofa slamming onto its back and chairs toppled over. Then paintings were torn down from the walls, the frames splintering as they were tossed into the fireplace, along with books that seemed to fly from the bookcase to add fuel to the fire. The ensuing conflagration illuminated the room, so they could see the destruction all around them, painted in an orange glow.

John grabbed hold of Brian’s hand and dragged him into the footwell under the desk. They curled up together, their bodies pressed close, John having automatically wrapped his arms around the slender frame of the young man, close enough to smell the patchouli oil in his hair. He was trembling in his arms.

“Hey there – it might all be a really, really elaborate hoax.”

“Stop psyching me. You know damn well it’s not. Shit, I can hear freaking chains now – can’t you?”

John listened carefully and then he nodded.

“Yes – chains.”

Then, from out of nowhere, John felt a cold hand grab hold of his ankle as if to drag him from their shared shelter. He yelled out in distress and kicked out trying to resist the force dragging him out of safety.

“Hey where the fuck are you taking him?” Brian grabbed hold of John under the arms and heaving him back to his side. “He’s mine, get your damn demon claws off of him!”

Scrambling back, John tucked his knees up high and held Brian close.

“That’s the second time I’ve saved your ass.”

“And?”

“I got a kiss the first time-”

This time it was John who took the more assertive stance, grabbing hold of the boy’s face and kissing him with as much passion as he could muster, which was considerable, especially after what he had gone through. He could feel Brian’s hands wandering and this time he did not stop them. Indeed he was trying to work out a way into an exceptionally tight pair of jeans.

“We can’t – not here. Damn.” John swore under his breath as he halted his attempts to unbuckle Brian’s leather belt. He then took hold of Brian’s wrists and tugged the hands out of his pants where they had been kneading his buttocks. “Trust me, I want to continue this, but not here. Not with that ‘thing’ out there trying to kill us … well me.”

“It really doesn’t like it when we get close does it?” speculated Brian, as he leaned his forehead against John’s chest. “Listen – isn’t that glass smashing now?”

As the howling winds subsided they could hear bottles breaking, one by one, then the glasses, the tinkling of glass on the floor as if a petulant ghost were deliberately destroying one item at a time. 

“Yes. And I’m not wearing any shoes,” said John, wriggling his toes. “Can this get any worse?”

“Don’t say that! Haven’t you ever seen any horror movies? That’s when things go totally to shit!” exclaimed Brian, shaking John as if he were deliberately invoking even more disasters to befall them. “What are we going to do?”

“We make a dash for it. I’ve got a torch-” John saw the confusion in Brian’s eyes. “A flashlight, in the desk. I’ll grab my gown on the way out and then we run like hell until we get to your flat. How does that sound as a plan?”  
  
“Apart from that fact that the demons just hear it all?” Brian rolled his eyes in mock despair. “Oh nothing!”

John crawled through the footwell until he got to the other side of the desk, he then reached up to the lower drawer and tugged it open. He felt around inside quickly until his hand came into contact with the heavy handled torch. Grabbing hold of it, he ducked back out of range from the flying bottles that were being launched at him as soon as he had emerged from under the desk.

“Now. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“How?”

“On the floor. Crawl towards the door!” whispered John. “It’s not attacking you, so you’re best to lead the way.”

“No way – together, I’m not leaving you behind,” stated Brian adamantly. “Classic horror movie error.”

As they began to crawl towards the door, holding onto each other’s hands as they did so, they noticed how cold it had become in the room.

Halfway across the Persian rug, a scratching sound alerted John to a new smell – of decay. Then a squeaking sound and then the sensation of tiny feet running across his calves.

“Argh!! Get off me! Get it off me! Now!” John leapt to his feet and was screaming at something that only he seemed to be aware of.

“What is it man? You’re scaring the shit outta me.” Brian had got to his feet and was holding John close trying to calm him down.

“A rat – it was a rat,” muttered John, almost incoherent with shock. “I felt the fucking thing run across my legs.”

“I fucking hate rats,” said Brian. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Hearing mocking laughter converging on them they took one look at each other, clasped hands and dashed for the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_As the door slammed shut, the lights flickered back on in the study. The furniture was all in place. Bottles and glasses were neatly arranged on the cabinet. The paintings still hung on the wall. Books were neatly arranged in the bookcases._

_However, a pair of stained, singed, and soggy trousers lay in a crumpled heap on the hearth rug._

_The fire glowed agreeably, the flames illuminating two figures sitting either side of a small table upon which sat a chess set. They were holding hands in amicable companionship._

_“That was very spiteful,” said one figure, tutting as he poked the ruined garment with the toe of a shiny buckled shoe. “You could have hurt him.”_

_“I didna break any bones. He’ll survive.”_

_“That is true. So, your son is … ”_

_“Hmph,” grunted the larger figure. “I’m no’ happy about the prospect of my bairn being buggered by yer namesake.”_

_“I rather think it is my relative who is in most danger of that. Your son is wilful and has no discretion whatsoever – ”_

_“Aye, and yer great, great, great … however many greats nephew, is too auld fer him.”_

_“You are eight years my senior.”_

_“Aye, but there’s maer than eight years between those two.”_

_“They worked well together. It was good to see how they protected one another.”_

_“Aye, that they did. And I’ll admit to seeing honest affection and no’ just a physical attraction.”_

_“Agreed.”_

_“ Do ye really want tae make that move, John?”_

_“Yes. I do. Checkmate, Jamie."_


End file.
